


Mirror-Colored

by aboxthecolourofheartache



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Manipulation, Emotionally Repressed, Flirting, Gen, Mind Games, Mutual Pining, Sort Of, Trust Issues, Unspecified Setting, because the alternative is scary, it wouldn't hurt if it weren't real, two emotionally wounded sharks circling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29029992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aboxthecolourofheartache/pseuds/aboxthecolourofheartache
Summary: Essek’s hand grips his knee, knuckles lilac-pale.  Caleb takes a risk and brushes the backs of his fingers against Essek’s.Essek spends a night in the tower, and nothing really goes as expected.
Relationships: Essek Thelyss & Caleb Widogast, Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 34
Kudos: 154





	Mirror-Colored

**Author's Note:**

> Before we get into it, take a good look at my username. The tin is labeled!

Alone in his suite in Widogast’s Nascent Tower, Essek gives his eyes time to adjust to the ‘moonlight’ shining through the stained glass. The silvery glow mutes the oranges and pinks of the glass sunrise. Doubtless, Caleb thought it an apt and meaningful decoration; he wanted Essek to see the sunrise. Apt and meaningful, indeed, and as much a threat as it is an olive branch. Essek moves his hand between the panes to catch palmfuls of silver-orange and silver-pink. If the light were liquid, it would spill. Essek’s hands shake. 

All of him shakes. 

He balks from his thoughts and strides into the next room, which is, of course, full of its own unbearably thoughtful touches. Essek pins his gaze to his feet, knowing that looking too long on too much biting kindness will snap the last of his control. He catches a glimpse of filigree book stands and gleaming alchemical equipment from the corner of his eye. Even keeping his attention on the floor is dangerous, because the tiles are an intricate geometric pattern of nacre and obsidian. 

The third room contains a bed done up in blue-blacks, lush velvets and slubbed silks. Next to the bed is a sumptuous, deep green chair with ample room to trance in comfort. Pillows piled against the armrests boast fringes of strung seed pearls. He strokes a hand across a swath of velvet, leaving five fingertip wakes of deeper shadow. His fingers tingle all out of proportion to the action. He curls them tight into his palm. 

There are books on the nightstand. Essek reads the titles and digs his nails just that much deeper into the heel of his hand. 

A bath steams behind a screen. Captive to his own dread, Essek crosses the room and takes the stopper from an amber bottle on the bench by the bath. He recognizes the perfume blend from Rosohna’s upscale markets, ginger and quince over a deeper, resinous dark wood. Too late, Essek realizes his eyes have drifted closed the better to savor the scent. 

Essek’s lips peel back from his fangs, and his reflection in the bathwater is feral enough to satisfy any Empire child’s nightmares. Everything here is a weapon, including Essek himself. He dabs the scented oil to his collarbones and behind his ears, to the soft insides of his wrists. 

Thus armed, he returns to the first room to confirm whether or not his door unlocks from the inside. 

It does. 

He steps, incredulous, over the threshold out into the hallway, first testing for illusions with his toe, then deliberately putting his feet on the slate floor. Essek will not cast so much as a cantrip inside the Tower. He isn’t sure what kind of response his magic would trigger and has no desire to find out. He draws the door shut behind him, and it closes with a whispered click. He opens it, and it leads to the same room. He closes the door once more to rest his forehead briefly against the lacquered vermaloc. 

Now he knows why Caleb showed him to the suite and left without giving a tour. Essek isn’t enjoying his own reaction and imagines it would disappoint the artist still more. 

What little ambient light filters into the hallway is more than enough for Essek. Unaccustomed as he is to the sound of his own footfalls, each soft step rattles cacophonously along his nerves like a cart down a bad road. Caduceus’ and Yasha’s rooms are on this same floor. Essek cannot help but wonder if this is the usual arrangement or one special to his admittance into the tower. The most perceptive member of the Nein and the wielder of Magician’s Judge make for daunting sentries. He fights the temptation to float so as to avoid making any noise. 

Excellent darkvision alerts Essek to movement ahead. He halts midstep when a cat appears. Likely there’s a name for the splotchy orange-black-white pattern of its coat, but Essek’s education in Common did not extend to cats. Cat and drow stare at each other. Essek’s ear flicks. The cat’s ear flicks. When Essek continues his quiet progress down the hall, the cat chirps and trots beside him, tail up like a pert banner. 

An escort, then. 

Essek lifts his chin and feels his face coalescing into the Shadowhand’s softly smiling mask, all in overreaction to a cat. This is not the Lucid Bastion or the Dungeon of Penance, and Essek is not flanked by guards or courtiers. But every little whiskered face, howsoever sweetly fuzzy, is a construct of the Tower and beholden to its master. Caleb would be a fool not to assign his magic to monitor Essek’s movements, especially when Essek made a fool of him once before. 

Essek really did expect his door to be locked, if not to make a point, then for convenience. There are only a few reasons this nominal freedom is on offer, all of them ill-boding. 

Stepping into open air in the iris column is different when he is committed to abstain from magic. Ignoring the lurch in his stomach and the rush of relief when the Tower’s lift catches him, Essek once again marvels at the irises. The one between the fourth and fifth floors snicks shut over his head with the sound of blunt shears. Essek’s lips quirk. Caleb has installed defensible stop-gaps between each floor in a tower with no stairs. Essek would bet good money the irises only sound dull. A fortress within a spell that only allows in those Caleb invites; a failsafe designed by a man who knows how dangerous it can be to withhold an invitation. Right now, Essek is the only potential threat, and admiring Caleb’s ingenuity is akin to appreciating the make of the knife at his throat. 

Passing downward through the kitchen level, Essek’s escort cat meows a greeting to another cat balancing a crumb-covered tray on its plumed grey tail. The kitchen cat replies over its shoulder as it goes on its way. Personality or programming? Marvelous, regardless. Essek’s cat looks up at him with big, green-gold eyes and thumps its head into his shin. As they touch down in the salon, it shimmies between his ankles either in a deliberate attempt to trip him or in an inexplicable effort to leave multicolored guard hairs clinging to his leggings. 

To one side: maps. To the other: books. On impulse, Essek visits the maps first. The fires in the fireplaces slumber snug in beds of coals. Essek notes that the cat has night vision as good as his own, or perhaps its construction gives it inherent knowledge of the Tower’s layout and any obstacles. Maps painted on heavy canvas hang tapestry-like on the walls. The table is shaped like Wildemount. Glancing over the hanging maps, Essek notices that there are none of the Empire. 

He turns to the map drawers beside the table and opens the one labeled ‘Rexxentrum.’ Each leaf of parchment within is blank. Essek begins to smile. On a hunch, fingers dancing over the neat brass labels, he finds and peeks at ‘Nicodranas.’ Veth’s husband and son have relocated there, not to mention Jester’s mother. There isn’t anything in the drawer at all. Essek is unreasonably charmed by this. He eyes the books on the far wall with game suspicion. 

Force of habit sees him replace the blank Rexxentrum pages neatly and in the order he drew them out. The cat hops off the Wildemount table and follows Essek across the room to the books. He plucks a book on Divination off the shelf at random, turns to the index, looks up a spell - and discovers the corresponding page entirely ink black. Eye-watering gibberish greets him in a tome of Abjuration. A promising page in a Transmutation treatise simply doesn’t exist, the text jumping from 145 to 147. 

What should be infuriating becomes a treasure hunt, and Essek’s sharp teeth glint over his lower lip in a thin, competitive smile. Everything here is a reproduction of something Caleb has seen or read, and there is no uncertain pattern to the censorship. No exact locales on the maps that might yield information Essek would not already have; no spells to copy; nothing about Eiselcross or, most tellingly, Aeor. 

Essek’s treasure hunt transitions into browsing the shelves. Unsurprisingly, Common predominates, followed by untranslated Zemnian. These are the two languages Essek would expect, but not necessarily in that order. It seems the dialectical bias in the Empire is stronger than Essek previously suspected. He finds a number of duplicates, likely created for the aesthetic of full shelves. Upon examination, books with the same title are also identical between the covers, not a ploy to hide other texts. 

He’s lighted upon a section of Sylvan theatre when he hears the iris open overhead. Caleb’s voice floats down from above, along with dim dancing lights. 

“Snooping?" 

... 

Caleb himself isn’t sure if he intends the accusation to be a joke or not. Descending down the iris column affords him an aerial view of the salon, dark as it is. Essek is an obscure shape in the low light, but Caleb sees that shape straighten and still. He sends two of his dancing lights ahead of him to illuminate the space between them just enough so he doesn’t trip over his nightvision-less human feet. 

Essek’s eyes are silver so pale that the delicate, red lace of blood vessels in his irises turns them faintly pink. In the dark, they are as mirror-colored as mercury and reflective like a cat’s. The drow blinks, causing a twin lunar eclipse lasting less than a second. 

Two or three neatly stacked books rest on each small study table, across, presumably, from the shelf on which Essek found them. Caleb glides his lights past their spines, noting the titles Essek found interesting. His lips tighten into a line before he remembers that Essek will be able to see his expression despite the dark. 

“There is a copy of this on the nightstand upstairs,” Caleb comments idly, picking up _Change and the Potentials of Transmutability_ from the top of a stack. 

“Is it blank, too?” Essek sounds genuinely curious. 

Caleb shrugs. “Yes.” 

“Then my options were racist smut or in a language I cannot read. The selection here is better.” 

“You might have used magic to translate,” Caleb points out. 

“I might have,” Essek agrees. “But I didn’t.” 

Caleb increases the brightness of his dancing lights mostly out of petty desire to see Essek’s wince, and he is not disappointed. Essek has a slim volume of Sylvan theatre in his hands, long fingers partially covering the crown of ivy embossed in gold on the front cover. Caleb watches as he sets the book aside, squaring its edge with the table corner. 

The silence is loaded, and Caleb will not be the one to break it. Essek looks ready to meet him in the waiting game until Caleb frowns at him in guarded disappointment. That’s all it takes to remind Essek of his precarious situation. His face goes ashen under his dusky indigo coloring. Essek’s ears pin, a blatant tell Caleb has not seen since their confrontation on the ship. 

“I see.” Between one breath and the next, Essek robes himself in professional poise. His ears relax to neutral. The Shadowhand’s signature smile blooms into place like frost on a windowpane, pretty to look at and twice as obfuscating. His hands come to rest in front of him, fingertips laced. He steps smoothly around the table to stand a respectful distance from Caleb. 

Caleb braces as that solicitous smile turns his direction. He cannot let Essek’s flash of fear and current deference get to his head. The precipitousness of the moment multiplies exponentially when he takes a breath to clear his thoughts and realizes that Essek is wearing the perfume from the suite upstairs. 

Caleb walks forward into Essek’s space. Essek neither yields nor stands his ground, just remains where he is, passive to Caleb’s approach other than politely raised eyebrows. 

“I wanted to talk with you,” says Caleb. He gentles his voice in counterpoint to the boldness of his physical approach. 

Essek tilts his head inquiringly and invites Caleb’s words with an elegant turn of his wrist. “By all means, please talk.” 

“Talk with, not talk to,” Caleb corrects. 

The Shadowhand’s smile curls up at the corners as he lowers his eyes. “Ah, my mistake. What do you wish to talk about?” 

Essek’s teeth are at a height with Caleb’s throat, dangerous even on the backfoot and beholden. Caleb reminds himself that he wants the promise of support out of this exchange, a leashed monster, not to tempt a mauling. _Kiss him into it._

“Are your rooms to your liking? Aside from the lack of reading material.” 

The soft smile sharpens ever so slightly. “I hate them.” Essek’s tone is mild despite the glint in his downcast eyes. “But the door opens, and that’s enough for me.” 

It’s a remark designed to cut, and it does. Caleb picks a scathing note from his repertoire and responds in kind, tempering it with subtle hurt. “I’m not in the habit of holding prisoners.” 

“No,” Essek agrees equitably and does not elaborate. 

“What were you looking for?” asks Caleb. He pivots, angling himself towards the table rather than Essek. Essek takes a precise step backwards with all the graceful aplomb of a dancer. He’s in his stocking feet, Caleb realizes. Slight, without the mantle, and the textured silk of his clothing allows him to blur into the darkness beyond the dancing lights. 

“Anything I could find. You’re an intelligent, broadly-read scholar of the arcane. This library is, by your own admission, a reproduction of your sources in print and image.” Essek trails his gaze over the shelves. The hint of a real smile flickers under the mask. “It’s a marvel. And not just the contents.” 

To illustrate, he strokes a finger down the spine of a shelved book, admiring not only the esoteric title but the perfect simulacrum of a well-worn cloth binding many times mended. “You have a real gift and the skill to back it up.” 

Caleb rakes his fingers through his hair, averts his face from the flattery. He pushes away from the table and goes to breathe life back into the fire in the nearest grate. Essek’s silver stare tickles between his shoulder blades. 

“You say that, but I recall you being more interested in teaching than in learning anything from me.” He speaks to the fire, senses more than sees Essek prowl to join him. 

“Please,” Essek drawls. “We both know that isn’t true.” 

“No? ‘Show me something impressive, something at the height of your power.’” Caleb does a credible impression of Essek’s accent and haughty mien, softens the teasing with a sidelong look that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “The height of my power was not so impressive, then.” 

Essek lifts a noncommittal shoulder in a there-and-gone liquid shrug. “I am more than impressed by the powers of your imagination. Not everyone takes the time to personalize a spell. If you’re fishing for further compliments to your Tower, the cats are fascinating.” 

He folds himself cross-legged onto the rug by the hearth, his back to the fire to preserve his sensitive eyes. The calico cat immediately appears at his ankles and butts her head into his forearms until, puzzled, he lifts them out of her way. Within an instant, Essek’s lap is full of purring cat. He gingerly rests his wrists on his knees, moving slowly so as not to disturb his guest. 

Caleb reaches over and scratches the cat under her chin, smiling as she raises her face and stretches her whiskers forward. “All cats are fascinating.” 

Still smiling, he looks up at Essek. The fire is warm, pinking his cheeks, its light dancing in his eyes. He has Essek’s rapt attention. Caleb scoots closer so he does not have to lean so far to pet the cat. They are as close now as they were on the day he, Essek, and Veth devised the Transmogrification spell. Something like a curtly controlled shiver stirs through Essek. 

They lapse into silence for a few moments, listening to the crackle of the fire and the rumble of a happy cat. Finally, Essek sighs so, so softly. “What do you want? Magic?” 

Caleb regards him wide-eyed, searches his face. The Shadowhand’s mask has become eggshell thin, tiredness, loneliness, weary acceptance of unwanted weakness showing through. _Too much too fast_ , thinks Caleb, letting out the line. When he speaks, the promise of a bit of bite colors his voice. “Certainly. I always want magic.” He lets Essek see the truth of that hunger. “If you are offering me more dunamancy, I would not decline.” 

Essek presses his lips together in a wry smile. Caleb continues, “But… I was hoping you would agree to help us.” 

At this, Essek seems cautious. “I’ve already offered you aid.” 

“I know,” says Caleb, earnestly. “I thank you for it. I wo-... I am concerned. The thing we face is so much bigger than all of us. Our resources are few and far between, our allies - most of them - are too distant to be here in time. We _need_ you." 

“You consider me an ally, then?” There’s a waver in Essek’s little jab, the hesitancy of hope. 

Caleb takes a deep breath and gnaws his lower lip. He flicks his gaze up to Essek, then back to the fire. “I want to think so. Are you? Would you be?” 

“I think that’s up to you and your friends, considering how thoroughly I squandered my first chance.” Essek’s brows pinch together in a peak of feeling before he smooths his expression. “If I did this, do you think you could trust me again? Is this repayment of a debt, or is it a chance to-,” he stumbles over the words, “-to do some good?” 

Essek’s hand grips his knee, knuckles lilac-pale. Caleb takes a risk and brushes the backs of his fingers against Essek’s. To his real surprise, Essek turns his hand over in invitation. Caleb accepts, sliding his hand into Essek’s palm so their fingertips brush each other’s wrists. Essek’s pulse beats fast under his thumb. 

Caleb smiles, canting his head to look directly at Essek, who has turned his face away. “ _Ja_. We can do some good together.” 

A single diamond tear escapes Essek’s tightly controlled neutral expression. Caleb lifts his other hand and soft, slow, with trembling fingers, cups Essek’s cheek to delicately brush away the tear that follows the first. 

The cat hops from Essek’s lap. 

They come together by degrees, hesitant but inexorable. 

“Shh….” Caleb hushes. He rests their foreheads together, brings his hand down from Essek’s face to settle at his waist. Essek’s free hand alights on Caleb’s collarbone and slides up to skim the side of his neck. 

The featherlight frisson of Essek’s sharp nails is electric until it isn’t. 

Five points of bright, unexpected pain freeze Caleb in his tracks. 

“You certainly know what you’re doing,” Essek whispers in Caleb’s ear. “But so do I.” 

Caleb swallows but says nothing. His eyes are huge, his face sheet white. He slowly turns just his gaze to look at Essek. 

Tears still shimmer in Essek’s eyes, but quicksilver has turned to the cold gleam of a knife-edge. Essek has Caleb by the throat and regards him as unaffected as if the last few minutes had never happened. He laughs - no more than a sharp exhalation - at whatever he sees on Caleb’s face and shakes his head wearily. 

“Let me elucidate something for you, Caleb Widogast: I would have helped without the bait. I respect that you do not trust me. To do otherwise would be not only insensitive but astonishingly stupid on my part. So I understand the anxieties that would drive you to, hmm, _ensure_ my docility.” 

Essek releases Caleb’s throat but shoves him backwards, causing Caleb to fall back on his elbows. 

“Still, I have to wonder. What more leverage could you want over me? You have my research, my position, my _life_ at your casual disposal with no more than a word to the right ears. I assure you, my heart is worth little in comparison, and I value it less.” 

“If you knew….” Caleb cannot bring himself to finish the question. He is mortified and not just a little shamed. 

“Why did I let the ruse progress so far?” Essek smiles, all sharp teeth. “Because I am my own punishment. And perhaps I selfishly hoped this would hurt you as much as it hurts me.” 

Still reeling, Caleb pushes himself upright and well out of Essek’s reach. “‘Hurt?’” he asks, frowning. 

“Yes. You have that power over me, too. For your sake, I hope you can’t revel in it.” Essek rises to his feet and brushes off his robes. Pain - _real_ pain - contorts his features. “You called me friend, once. Few enough people have seen me fit for friendship that I cannot help but yield to some sentiment. I still consider you a friend, though I understand the feeling is not mutual. As I said, I value my heart very little.” His voice darkens into a quiet threat. “Give me credit for my own complicity, and never try this again.” 

“Essek-” Caleb begins. Essek shoots him a poisonous look and turns away. 

“Goodnight, Widogast. I will see you at breakfast to talk support strategies.” Essek leaves the semi-circle of firelight and vanishes into the darkness. A moment later, Caleb hears the iris open and close. 

The fire burns merrily. Frumpkin appears at his wizard’s side, making little meeps of comfort. Caleb gathers the cat close with one arm. He presses his other hand hard over his mouth, squeezes his eyes shut as tightly as he can, and tries to ride out the raw chasm of hurt in his chest.


End file.
